Reason

"The peasant and his wife have decorated their walls with sweet wrappers and vodka labels, and someone's painted a tree on the door growing out of a vase, and some red flowers that look more like fish. The demand for art is here, but the good Lord has sent no artists. How can a peasant think of art? For nine months of the year he can't even take off his mittens and straighten his fingers, and when the summer comes his back aches with labour.
...
- ... Now, your Honour, what I want to make plain to you is this. Here in Siberia people have darkened minds. They can't make anything, they can't even fish. It's a crying shame, because a Siberian's a good man. He's soft-hearted and honest and he doesn't drink - he's a treasure, not a man, but his life is wasting, like a mosquito, or a fly. What's he living for, your Honour?

- Well, I suppose he works and eats and clothes himself. What more does a man want?

- Your Honour. A human being is not a horse."

Anton Chekhov